


The Youngest Was The Most Loved

by Das_verlorene_Kind



Category: America's Suitehearts - Fall Out Boy (Music Video), Fall Out Boy
Genre: Abusive Parents, America's Suitehearts (Music Video), Angst, M/M, Munchausen by proxy, Sickfic, child!Patrick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 08:57:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12578220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Das_verlorene_Kind/pseuds/Das_verlorene_Kind
Summary: Little Patrick isn't like other boys. He is always sick, has been struggling with his health since the day he was born. There's illness, pain, and headaches, and a darkness in the corner in his eyes whenever he coughs up blood. One day, a face emerges from the black clouds - with a painted smile on it...





	The Youngest Was The Most Loved

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE NOTE: This fic deals heavily with domestic child abuse and its consequences. It's not pretty, so if that's something you don't feel comfortable reading, please turn around and leave. I do not intend to upset anyone.  
> There's mention of death/suicide, too, so beware. 
> 
> Happy Halloween everyone!
> 
> This is my entry for the [Trick Or Pete](https://sn1tchesandtalkers.tumblr.com/post/166292338905/halloween-is-the-best-time-of-year-whats-not-to?is_highlighted_post=1) challenge! A big thanks to Flames_And_Jade and Snitchesandtalkers for organizing everything, and also big thanks to SnitchesAndTalkers for beta-reading this fic, and supporting me so much!  
> Art done by me.  
> Title from a Morrissey song.

 

 

 

 

Little Patrick isn’t like other boys.

 

Patrick is sick. Always, ever since he was a newborn baby, he has been struggling. He tries, he tries so hard to get healthy for mommy, but his little body refuses to reward his struggles. There’s always something wrong with him – a cough that won’t go away, a rash spreading over his body, his asthma acting up, allergies and nausea and all kinds of unpleasantness. Patrick’s body is fragile and prone to illness, that’s what mommy told him, that’s why she has to keep feeding him special food, special pills and syrups and powders, that’s why Patrick needs special attention.

Mom is a nurse, she knows how to help sick people. It is her job at the hospital, and her vocation at home as well. Patrick knows that his mother went to school to learn how to make people get better again, she knows right from wrong and she knows how to give Patrick’s pain long, scary-sounding names that he can never remember. She knows what to do, she always knows what’s best, and she would never let something bad happen to Patrick.

 

Over the years, Patrick’s health only declines. He feels miserable, because he’s sure that’s why mommy and daddy are always fighting. If he had been born a normal child, daddy wouldn’t scream all the time. If he had been born healthy, mommy wouldn’t have to worry all the time.

Little Patrick is a slightly sickly toddler, nose always stuffed, and he’s unable to run or play for too long with the other kids because he’s always tired, and his little lungs make the air he desperately tries to inhale feel like liquid fire.

Sometimes, when Patrick is panicking, when his little body seems to be on fire with blood boiling and his mind turned into a swirling mess, there’s a blackness in the corner of his eye. A darkness that pulsates in synch with his panicked little heart, always just escaping whenever Patrick tosses his head, trying to catch sight of it. When Patrick tells the kindergarten teachers, they look worried and concerned and they use big words like “hallucination” and “asphyxiation” and “trauma”, none of which Patrick understands but all of them scaring him a lot. So he stops telling them about it. Mommy doesn’t like them either, Patrick has seen her arguing with them and being angry and that can’t be good.

When Patrick gets a nasty stomach bug soon after that, mommy sits him down and explains it’s because the kindergarten teachers didn’t listen to her. That explains her constant arguments with them, Patrick understands now.

Mommy says he can’t eat certain foods, because they make him sick. She says Patrick is special, and therefore, he needs special food. Sometimes, that is not enough. Sometimes, Patrick’s body needs to be fed with a tube, hard plastic tubes going into his nose and down his throat, and a weird looking fluid dripping through it. Mommy is a nurse, and she does it herself, she won’t let some doctor do it who might end up hurting him. “It’s a special formula”, mommy tells him, “a special formula for a special boy!” She always gives him a kiss on the forehead after saying that, and brushes her hand through his hair. Patrick likes that, he likes when mommy is gentle and caring, when she looks at him with eyes that only see him at this intimate moment. It doesn’t matter that he feels hungry, that his stomach hurts and that the tubes down his nose are itching, a strange, foreign presence in his body that make him uncomfortable. Right then, mommy only belongs to him, and Patrick is all hers. The most special boy.

Mommy often looks worried, but she always looks happy when she can help Patrick.

 

It only gets worse when school starts. Patrick’s siblings move out for college, and he’s all alone at home with mom and dad fighting, it gets worse each day no matter how hard Patrick presses his face into the pillows to drown out the terrible noise. He feels nauseous, more than usual, but maybe that’s because of the change in the formula mommy feeds him, or because his body hasn’t adjusted to the pills mommy gave him with a wink and a smile and the instructions not to tell dad about it.

One day, when Patrick comes home from school, mom pulls him aside and kneels down, on eyelevel with him as if Patrick was an adult. Patrick holds his breath; it means something important is about to happen. “We can’t be with your Dad anymore,” his mother says, and she’s angry. Patrick doesn’t like it when she is angry. “Dad wants you to be sick, Patrick. Dad doesn’t want me to help you. Dad wants you to be hurt, Dad wants us _both_ the be sad and hurt. Do you want that, Patrick?”

No, Patrick doesn’t want that. Patrick wants his mother to smile and be happy, he needs mommy to help him. And helping him always makes mommy so happy.

 

The house is empty now that Dad has left. Patrick doesn’t mind it much. He likes having everything to himself, and no that no one else is there anymore, mommy has even more time to care for him.

 

One day, mommy says he can’t play with other children anymore, because they make him sick. They are full of germs and dirt and bacteria that could hurt Patrick, even kill him. School is too dangerous for special children like Patrick. She says that with a soft, hurt voice, and it scares Patrick. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to leave his mother all alone. He has to be strong and fight for her. Patrick isn’t sad that he doesn’t have to get up early for school anymore, and he doesn’t miss how some of the kids looked at him wide-eyed and panicked whenever he says he’s just sick, with scorn and derision when his weak little body doesn’t do well during sports or while playing hide and seek during breaks, or with disgust and pity when he explains he can’t eat school lunch because it will make him throw up and die, that’s what mommy said at least.

Running around on the playground is ruled out as well. The ill-inducing children smear their snot and spit and everything everywhere. It’s not safe.

What if he falls and starts to bleed? Patrick hates that, because his wounds seemingly never heal despite mommy dressing and redressing them, and he doesn’t like the hurt of all the different kinds of ointments she puts on the raw, suppurating skin. And what if Patrick fell and broke a bone? Patrick is sure that would never heal, and he doesn’t want to spend months or possibly years in agony.

 

Despite all the precautions, Patrick’s condition doesn’t improve. He’s coughing more, sometimes blood, and his tummy always hurts so much. The rash now never seems to go away, always itching, making his skin feel paper thin and seeping out disgusting puss. Patrick is ashamed, he feels gross, but mommy says it’s okay, she says she still loves him unlike everyone else. That calms Patrick down.

 

The familiar blackness on the edge of his vision that has been with him ever since he can remember intensifies with each burning cough, with each painful stomach ache, with every other failure of Patrick’s little body. The worse it gets, the more shapes appear in the dark mass. Blurry at first, disappearing as always when Patrick tries to take a closer look, which is really frustrating him. He doesn’t tell his mother about it; it’s nothing real and palpable like the slime he coughs out or the bile he vomits up or the blood seeping from his scabs, and mommy is worried enough about those already. She doesn’t need to worry any more about things that don’t exist.

A lot of the time, Patrick is alone at home. Mommy still has to work and Patrick is so proud of her, proud that she helps all the people become nice and healthy again, he hopes he will be that one day, too. He spends his days reading comics or watching TV, doing the homework his mother instructs him to do – carefully, because if he does well, it means mommy gives him a smile, it means Patrick might be allowed a treat, it means mommy is happy – and sometimes he feels alone. But there’s nothing he can do, cruel mother nature decided that his body is too fragile to be in the presence of other people. And with all the disgusting rashes, with the constant fainting, with the way he keeps coughing miserably – no kid would want to play with him. That’s mean, Patrick knows it, but his mother told him that’s just how humans are, and that he doesn’t need to worry. Because mommy loves him.

 

It happens one day when Patrick is alone in his room, after a particularly bad asthma attack. Patrick’s chest hurts and his eyes are tearing up, but he can’t see anything anyway. The darkness is taking over his field of vision completely, blurry shapes and a grinning mouth and clinical steel like the little scalpels mom keeps in her pockets, and then Patrick collapses on his bed.

When he wakes up, he’s afraid he has died for a moment, because everything is still black. But then Patrick blinks, and realizes the mass of black is moving, realizes the mass of black takes clear shape, that the grinning mouth now sits on a fully formed face.

There’s something – someone? – a _creature_ sitting on Patrick’s bed. It appears to have a human body, and a human face, but the clothes are nothing like Patrick has ever seen, strange shimmery colors and shapes and metal parts he can’t identify. The creature has paint on his face, distorting the underlying features into a weird smile and letting his dark eyes look even larger and darker.

Patrick is too surprised to be really scared. Curiosity wins over his fear, and as soon as his trembling legs and arms allow him, he sits up.

“Who are you?” Patrick asks, because the creature looks like a human, and Patrick’s mom has taught him to be a polite little boy. And you ask a human who they are, not what they are. That would be rude. “I am Patrick,” he adds hastily, because this person doesn’t know him, and not introducing himself would get him scolded if his mother knew.

There’s a moment of silence, and Patrick wonders if the other person won’t answer. Patrick doesn’t like rude people.

“I’m Sandman,” the person finally answers. The deep voice, short hair and lean body make Patrick decide it must be a boy. He sounds like he’s an adult, but his face looks so young, weirdly ageless. Patrick doesn’t know what to make of it. “Just Sandman, little human.”

“My name is Patrick,” Patrick insists indignantly, “and it’s not my fault I’m small, mommy says it’s because my body is too weak to grow properly.”

“I know that,” Sandman replies. “I’ve been watching you for a long time, Patrick.”

That is weird. Patrick combs his mind for why this Sandman guy would be watching someone like him, before realization hits. “Wait, so you’re _the_ sandman? How come I’ve never seen you before then? Are you here to put me to sleep? Because I’m not tired.”

“Yes and no,” Sandman says, and Patrick thinks he’s trying to smile, but it’s lost among the painted on permanent grin. “I am the brother of sleep. Once I close your eyes, they will be closed forever.”

“I don’t understand,” Patrick says with furrowed brows, and a frown appears on his face when he gets a chuckle in response. Patrick doesn’t like to be made fun of.

But when Sandman speaks up again, he doesn’t sound amused. Just sad. “It’s better for you if you don’t understand,” he says softly, and Patrick doesn’t like not understanding things, but he knows he’s just a child and sometimes adults are smarter than him and he shouldn’t ask too many questions. That’s what mommy tells him whenever Patrick isn’t behaving well, and mommy is always right.

 

“Why are you here then?” Patrick inquires shyly. “Do you want to be my friend? I can’t have other children for friends, mommy says they make me sick and then I’ll die. But if you’re not human, that means you won’t be dangerous, right?”

“Wrong,” Sandman whispers, and he looks all sad again despite the broad smile painted on his skin. “I’m the most dangerous of them all. If you touch me, I’ll have to take you away. That’s what I came for in the first place – but I see, your body hasn’t given up completely yet…”

“I’m fine,” Patrick says irritated. “Mommy helps me getting healthy again. There’s no need to worry. She said so herself. If I listen to her and do what she says, I’ll be safe.”

“You’ve seen me before, almost,” Sandman says. “I’ve always been there, Patrick, I just – usually don’t show my face. And usually, people can’t see me anyway, unless…” He trails off, and Patrick waits for him to finish. He doesn’t. But Patrick begins to realize – that darkness at the edge of his vision, was that a sign? Was it this strange Sandman person watching over him?

“You’re only there when I’m miserable,” Patrick points out. He’s a little embarrassed; this stranger has only ever seen him being weak and sick. “I can be more than that,” Patrick continues. “Mommy says I’m smart, I’m very good at math and I know a lot of things! And I can read very good, sometimes I read to – “ Patrick stops himself, and bites his lip. He reads to his stuffed animals, mostly, who always enjoy his readings, but he is afraid Sandman will laugh at him for that like the kids at school once did.

Instead, Sandman tilts his head, and sends Patrick a curious gaze. “Reading sounds nice,” he says softly, and a real smile almost outshines the one painted black over his mouth.

“Would you like me to show you?” Patrick asks, all excitement and eagerness, and whatever shyness he had now forgotten. “I can read something for you. I have a big book with fairytales, or I have some comics if you wanna take a look?”

Sandman shakes his head. “No, just reading is fine. I’m not picky, you can read whatever you like.”

That’s a request Patrick is not going to refuse. Maybe the nature of his body prevents him from making friends with other people, but he won’t have to worry about that with Sandman. And it would be nice to show his new friend that he can be more than just a sickly little boy. Patrick drags out the large book with fairytales, the one with colorful illustrations that he likes so much. Despite the offer, Sandman doesn’t come closer to take a look at them, but he does listen carefully to Patrick reading. It’s nice to have someone be so attentive; aside from his mother no one ever pays much attention to Patrick.

Patrick reads until another coughing fit interrupts him. This one is over fast, with much less pain than the last one. But once Patrick has calmed down, he sees how Sandman stands up – he’s almost a little scary now, all black clouds looming over Patrick, but his eyes look thoughtful, yet friendly.

“That’s enough,” he says softly. “Thank you for reading to me.”

“You don’t have to go yet!” Patrick pleads as he sits up on his knees.

Sandman takes a step back. “I enjoyed your company, Patrick,” he whispers, “and that’s why I hope we don’t meet again anytime soon.”

With that, he just vanishes within the blink of an eye, the darkness surrounding him making way for the gloomy daylight falling through Patrick’s curtains.

Patrick is left behind all alone again, irritated and a little disappointed.

 

Despite their parting words, it’s not the last time that Patrick sees the Sandman.

The sicker he becomes, the more often Sandman does return. Patrick likes it, he enjoys the company of someone else, and just tries to ignore the sadness underneath colorful paint and strange clothes. Sandman mostly stays quiet, but he listens carefully to everything Patrick has to tell. Soon, he knows all about Patrick’s favorite movies, about his favorite music, his favorite cartoons, he has been introduced to Patrick’s stuffed animals and the pills on his bedside table. Patrick reads him all his favorite books, all of which Sandman seems to enjoy no matter what kind of story they entail.

Sandman always stays at the end of the bed, away from Patrick, leaning against the wall, as if he were exhausted. Maybe he is. He won’t come closer, says it’s dangerous, and Patrick doesn’t insist. Maybe Sandman is afraid he’ll get sick as well, Patrick can’t blame him.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Patrick says one day. It’s been an awful week, there’s been blood in his mouth whenever he coughs and Patrick has been tossing around so much, mom had to tie him down to the bedframe so that he doesn’t hurt himself. Patrick doesn’t like that, he doesn’t like that mom has to help him get to the toilet and clean him up, but he doesn’t complain. Mommy is making him be healthy again. She is doing her best, and Patrick wasn’t behaving right, so it is only appropriate. Patrick is doing better now, the burn on his skin where the rope dug into it is still bright pink, but slowly fading, and mommy has smiled at him as she put some lotion on it. Patrick is a good boy. The very best, most special boy.

“I’m glad you’re here, Sandman” Patrick repeats, “I like you. I like that you listen to me. Mommy is always so busy, and all the other kids are cruel.”

“You shouldn’t be glad that I’m here,” Sandman answers quietly. “My appearance only means bad things, Patrick.”

“Well, not for me!” Patrick says lighthearted. Why is Sandman so sad all the time? Patrick doesn’t understand. “I like having you here. Don’t you like being my friend?”

There’s a soft chuckle as the painted-on grin widens even further. “Of course I like being your friend. Just…”

“Just what?” Patrick asks anxiously.

“Nothing.” Sandman shakes his head. “Go on, read me that book, Patrick, I like it when you read to me. You have a nice voice.”

Patrick smiles, and reaches for the book buried under his pillows. The praise lets him forget his doubts, and he doesn’t catch the pensive gaze that Sandman sends him.

 

Of course, those happy times cannot last forever. Patrick’s condition doesn’t improve no matter how hard he tries to get healthy for his mom. Today has been an exceptionally awful day, Patrick had been crying and screaming and forgetting himself for a moment, and mommy has been so disappointed. She had to tie him down to the bedframe again, until Patrick calmed down and stopped disobeying. It’s been several hours, and Patrick’s wrists are throbbing, he knows that there will be bright red marks that will hurt for days, matching the one on his face where his mother’s hand had been forced to slap him, complimenting the bruises on his skin where mommy had to hurt him previously. She has to do that a lot these days, sometimes, until there’s blood, sometimes, her hand is not enough. But it’s only for the best, and they will remind him to be a good boy next time. Naughty children deserve punishment, and it hurts mommy too when she has to hurt Patrick, but it needs to be done or Patrick won’t get healthy.

It’s very boring though, being unable to move leaves Patrick with no possibilities to entertain himself. He’s had enough thinking, he’s done with resisting, and he hopes that his mother will come back soon so he can apologize and promise to be a better son. His chest hurts, too, he can feel the beat of his heart hammering against his ribs, and he’s hungry as well. His stomach is hurting a lot, maybe he needs the food tube again, but hopefully not. Patrick hopes he is good enough to eat a normal meal, and if he apologizes the right way, maybe mommy will allow him a treat –

 

These thoughts are interrupted when the familiar black clouds darken the room, and Sandman manifests on the end of the bed. Patrick jolts up, and a sharp pain in his wrists lets him almost cry out. Almost, because crying is for weaklings, and mommy doesn’t like crying or screaming. He’s a bit embarrassed to be seen like this, Sandman must know now that Patrick is an ill-behaved child.

Silence fills the room, together with more darkness than usual. Patrick anxiously waits for Sandman to speak up. He hopes Sandman isn’t angry like his mother is, because Patrick doesn’t want to cause more trouble.

“Who did that?” Sandman points to Patrick’s hands, still tied down. His voice sounds calm, but there’s an underlying darkness behind it that scares Patrick a little.

“I did that,” Patrick answers cautiously. “I was bad. Please, don’t hate me, okay?”

Sandman inhales sharply. “I don’t hate you, Patrick,” he says in a gentle voice. “But you didn’t tie yourself down.”

“Mommy did. She had to. I can’t be a good and healthy child if I don’t do what she says.” Patrick bites his lip, and stares at Sandman, waiting for a reaction. Will Sandman be angry with him?

“She almost killed you, Patrick,” Sandman says in a low voice, and the wicked, dangerous undertone is back. More darkness pours into the room, and the painted-on smile suddenly looks very scary. “It’s not the first time she almost killed you, you know that?”

“That’s not true!” Patrick flinches at these unjust accusations. “That’s not true, you’re lying. I’m just sick, and mommy is helping me to get better!”

“I’ve seen it with my own eyes!” Sandman looks even scarier now that he’s upset. If Patrick wasn’t busy being angry, he would be afraid. “Why do you think I’m here, Patrick? Because death is lingering around at all times, you’re at the brink of dying and I am – every second, I am afraid I’ll have no choice but to comply with its order.”

“That’s nonsense!” Patrick objects, gasping for air. Anger is tightening his chest, making it harder to breath. “I’m sick, and mommy is the only one who wants to help me! You’re not even human! You don’t understand!” Patrick is shouting now, but he doesn’t care. He knows he shouldn’t, mommy might get angry with him, but Sandman is just in the wrong. Patrick opens his mouth for more screaming, but instead, another cough comes out. It hurts in his chest and Patrick can’t stop, but with his hands tied, he also can’t reach for his inhaler. All he can do is continue to cough violently as reality slowly slips away from him.

In the back of his mind, Patrick registers his mother coming in, alarmed by the screaming and the coughing. Patrick hears someone screaming, he sees how Sandman stands up. A terrifying look takes over Sandman’s face, the broad grin distorted into something vile and ugly, as the lingering darkness surrounding him increases.

Then the world around him swirls and blends together, before Patrick’s vision fades to black. He doesn’t see Sandman jolting forward, and he doesn’t see the gloved hand wrapping around his mother’s neck.

When Patrick wakes up, there’s so many people around him, strangers in brightly colored jackets asking him questions he doesn’t understand, and the bright lights from outside the window hurt his eyes almost as much as the noise. It takes a few moments until Patrick fully understands the two most important things.

 

Sandman is gone, and his mother is dead.

 

No one wants to take care of a sickly, screaming child. Patrick hears words like “neglected” and “domestic abuse” and “malnourished”, all of which are lies. The social workers all treat him like he’s broken, when really, Patrick is just a little sick, it’s not his fault he’s just special, no one seems to understand that. There’s tons and tons of questions, but no one ever _listens_ to Patrick. So, he just stays silent after a while, clutching his stuffed animals to his chest, wishing that Sandman was there. He always listened, and Patrick feels sad that they didn’t part on good terms. He’s scared that his disobedient behavior has turned Sandman away. If only he had been a better boy, maybe mommy wouldn’t have suffered the sudden heart attack that is noted down as the cause of death, maybe Sandman would have come back to be his friend again.  

But Sandman doesn’t come, and when Patrick asks for him, the face of the social worker drops. The false smile vanishes from her face, and Patrick is sure that whatever she writes down on the form is another mean word. It’s a mistake that Patrick never repeats again – he should have known, other people are mean and cruel and the world is not made for special people like him, just like mommy always told him.

In the end, his father reluctantly takes him in, bound by moral – and legal – obligations.

With time, Patrick gets healthier, he gets better, but the more his condition improves, the angrier he gets. It’s only proof that mom has been helping him, that he was just about to get better, if only she had been able to see! If only he had been there to prove it! She would have been so proud to see her masterpiece completed. Her most special boy, being the very best just for her.

But mommy is gone, never to return, and Sandman seems to have gone with her. Patrick hasn’t been able to see him ever since, and the absence of his friend leaves a dull throb in his chest. He has lost his mother and his best friend, and little Patrick feels very, very alone.

Dad takes him in, but Patrick never gets over his quiet resentment for him. Dad wanted him miserable. Dad was ashamed to have Patrick as his son. Dad left them behind. Dad made mommy cry. He can never be forgiven, no matter how hard his father pretends to be a good parent now.

 

Patrick just keeps his head low, stays silent, and misses his mother’s gentle touch, her carefulness when she attended his many needs, the praising words and proud smile. He misses how she was always there, how even if she had to hurt Patrick, it was only for his best.

 

Sometimes, Patrick misses being hurt. The pain always grounded him back in reality, gave him something to focus on. Patrick understands pain, he knows how to deal with that, he likes it when things have a clear cause. That’s why sometimes, Patrick drags his nails into his skin until the skin breaks, pulls out strands of hair so that he has to hide the bald spots under hats, finds joy in watching a knife carve sense into his life. For a few moments, it brings him peace, makes him feel secure and loved again.

He misses Sandman, too. Patrick doesn’t trust the other kids, and they don’t like the nerdy outsider who keeps himself hidden under hats and long sleeves. He never outright gets in trouble with anyone, but there’s no other human he would call a friend. Why would he, if friends just leave you anyway, like Sandman did? If all that friendship rewards him with is hurt and sadness and missing the other one with a fierceness that doesn’t ebb away even if the years go by, Patrick can very much do without friends.

 

It’s not very surprising that after finishing high school, Patrick picks up the profession of his mother, and starts training to be a nurse.

He wants to be like his mother, and bring something good into the world. He too wants the power to help, to keep illness and death at bay, at least temporarily. He too wants people to look up to him like he once looked at mommy, with wide eyes and a smile and hope, with trust and respect, with the knowledge that the other person is strong and equipped with everything necessary to make their lives a little better.

Determined to be the best, to not let his mother down even in her death, Patrick studies hard. Outside of work, he keeps mostly to himself as he did before. People can be cruel, and Patrick isn’t interested in rude people’s presence. The patients are hard enough to deal with, but they are sick, and therefore excused to a certain degree. Patrick knows what it’s like to be sick, to be in pain, to long for someone to make it better. They’re silently begging for help, _Patrick’s_ help, even if they don’t know it yet. That’s why Patrick can forgive them their behavior.

Patrick’s alone, but he’s not lonely. It’s safer and easier to stay away from others, and the stuffed animals of his childhood still provide excellent company. They still like being read to – even if the reading material these days consists of medical trade literature – and sometimes, Patrick misses the other silent listener from his childhood days.

 

But Sandman never shows up.  

 

The hard struggles are rewarded with good grades, and Patrick completes his studies without any troubles. Finding employment isn’t difficult, especially since Patrick isn’t exactly picky. He just wants to help, follow the footsteps of his mother, and he wants to work as hard as he can.

And that is exactly what Patrick does. He switches between wards, works overtime, has to cover more shifts than legally allowed, the disadvantages of a generally underemployed hospital, but Patrick never complains. He’s here to help everyone, and he doesn’t mind where he works – everyone needs his help. Everyone needs to be cared for. Patrick’s calm and collected and determined, and he’s very good at doing a regular nurse’s job.

 

But that’s not always enough. Patrick is special, and therefore, he sometimes does extraordinary things that a normal nurse wouldn’t do.

 

Sometimes people have to suffer first before they deserve to be loved. They have to earn the care and affection of others, and Patrick is just helping them a little with that.

 

Mommy was always the happiest when she could help Patrick. When Patrick was sick, when he suffered, mommy loved him the most, Patrick remembers that. So, sometimes, he knows it’s best to help people by letting them stay sick for a little while longer. He’s doing them a favor, he’s helping them without them even knowing, but that’s okay with Patrick. He doesn’t need extra praise, he just smiles to himself and reminds himself that his mother would be proud. She would have understood. She would have smiled.

In an environment like an understaffed hospital it’s easy to sneak by and undermine the system. Patrick is always polite, with a gentle voice and a polite smile, and works hard, so no one pays any special attention to him when there are much more pressing matters. This, Patrick finds out, is very helpful for his plans. No one notices the extra pills he slips sometimes, the marks on someone’s legs or arms when he binds them down just like mommy did whenever Patrick wasn’t behaving or needed to be restrained for his own good, or a missing one-way syringe. No one has time to question or overthink suggestions like an infusion or a food tube – one less mouth to worry about during meal times, and since Patrick volunteers to take care of it, all the better, and whatever extra they can put on the medical bills won’t hurt either. No one has time to notice cuts or bruises.

It’s always a risk, but it’s a risk worth taking. Pain has always helped Patrick, it still does until this day, so he has decided to share that coping mechanism with others. And when their loved ones gather around the person, in tears, praying or just wishing for the best, caring, appreciative and attentive like never before – yes, that’s when Patrick has truly succeeded. What is health worth when no one is there to admire it? Nothing, that much he knows. So sometimes, people need to suffer first.

Sometimes, a risk doesn’t pay off, and things go wrong. Patrick knows that, and that’s why he is only a little disappointed when the heart attack one of his patients suffers after an overdose of his medication is fatal. Patrick knows he has been careful, he never has any ill intentions, but bodies aren’t machines. There’s always unpredictability, so he only feels a little bad. Better a death at the peak of happiness then a slow decline in misery.

 

Patrick has carried the corpse to the morgue in a hollowed-out stretcher. Can’t offend anyone’s delicate senses with death. There’s usually supposed to be two people, but Patrick’s colleague bailed after they had heaved the body unto the stretcher, with the flimsy excuse of a smoke break. It’s absolutely irresponsible, and the irrational fear of death irritates Patrick to no end. Screw that guy, Patrick is not going to stand around waiting. He pushes the stretcher towards the elevator alone, and heads down without his colleague. He prefers to be alone, anyway.

 

Everyone at the morgue is overworked as well, and the banality of his former patient’s death doesn’t catch anyone’s attention. Patrick is left alone with the forms and a pen to deal with the boring formality of death all by himself.

It’s only then that Patrick notices a familiar blackness at the edge of his vision. The room is filled with a strange, yet all-too familiar presence. Patrick drops his pen, stumbles backwards and rubs his eyes.

It’s Sandman who manifests from the blurry mass of black, sharp contours emerging.

Sandman still looks like Patrick’s memory, an eerie throwback to his childhood. The same clothes, the same ageless face, black hair, black make up, a broad painted-on smile that can never conceal the sadness in his eyes. It’s unnerving, like opening a time capsule, like being transported back right to the room of his childhood, surrounded by pillows and four walls of safety.

It’s disappointing, to say the least. Out of all times he could have shown up, it has to be now, when the very dead body of Patrick’s last failure is just a few feet away.

“Hello, Patrick,” Sandman greets him, breaking the gloomy silence lingering in a room full of death. He doesn’t seem to mind that. “It’s been a while, I’m afraid.”

It brings out the childish side in Patrick, the one that wants to stomp his feet and pout while crying betrayal. How could his friend vanish without a word for years, only to reappear now? “That’s not fair to say,” Patrick says through gritted teeth. “I was always here. You just never came to visit me.”

“It’s not that easy, Patrick.” Sandman sighs. “Look, I am not supposed to show my face – I am not allowed to interfere. That’s why I had to stay hidden. Being your friend, as much as I enjoyed it… It’s against the rules. After what happened last time… I got in serious trouble.”

That makes Patrick feel a bit guilty. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, “I never meant to get you in trouble.” He nervously crosses his arms in front of his chest. He’s here to help, to solve problems, not to _cause_ them. That’s not what a good boy should do, his mother would have scolded him for that.

“It was worth it for being your friend.” Sandman smiles, and just like Patrick remembers, it distorts the paint on his face in a strange way, yet makes his eyes shine in a way that makes Patrick feel all warm inside. “And now, whatever trouble I might get into will be worth it. Because I am here to warn you, Patrick. I am here to help you.”

“Warn me? _Help_ me?” Patrick repeats in disbelief. “No offence, but I need neither warnings nor any help. I’m doing fine. _I’m_ the one who helps now.”

 

“Is that what you call _help_ , Patrick?” Sandman points in the direction of the dead patient that Patrick has just wheeled down. His voice sounds sharp and accusing, more frightening than Patrick has ever seen him.

“That was- that was an accident,” Patrick stammers, “I never intended for him to die! I just wanted him the spend his time on earth reconciling with his family, reconnecting with his loved ones, go back to a better life!”

“You killed him,” Sandman says quietly, and the broad painted smile seems to mock Patrick.

“I did not,” Patrick hisses. “And even if he’s dead, he’s much happier that way. What good is life if it’s only full of loneliness and misery?!”

“And who are you to judge that, hm?” Sandman looks angry now, and more blackness emerges from his body, swallowing the surroundings. “You have no right to play with anyone’s life like that. You don’t get to judge who deserves to live or to die.”

“I didn’t want him to die, don’t you understand? I was just trying to help!” Patrick is upset. Maybe, Sandman isn’t human enough to understand?

“You’re not helping, Patrick. You’re only hurting yourself and everyone else.” The anger has vanished, it’s traded for sadness again, and something like desperation. Sandman’s shoulders slump over, and he flinches as if he were in pain. He’s not supposed to interfere, and Patrick briefly wonders what kind of consequences Sandman’s paying for his disobedience. “Please, stop it. Please, I don’t want to see you like this. Don’t – don’t make me come back, Patrick.”

With these words, Sandman disappears before Patrick has time to answer. The darkness lingers for a second or two, before every trace of him is gone again. Bright artificial light floods the room now, and Patrick is left behind, alone again.

 

Death is inevitable at a hospital, though. Everyone has to die at some point, and people who are sick are much more likely to do so. That’s why no one bats an eye the next time an elderly woman dies under the caring hands of Patrick. And he cared a lot, he really did, he tried his very best to help her in every way he could, but her body proved too weak to handle the additional pills he slipped into her cup.

He’s the one who finds her dead in her room. She was lucky enough to be able to afford a room alone, a luxury these days, but all her money couldn’t buy her the care of her family, as Patrick noticed with anger. He calms himself down by reminding himself that _he_ cared, _he_ tried to make a difference, _he_ only had the best intentions. Patrick was there for her, so she wasn’t all alone.

Before he has the time to leave and report what’s happened, familiar darkness looms over him, soon swallowing almost every last bit of light in the room. Sandman manifests shortly after, breathing heavily – Patrick never realized that even a creature like Sandman needed to breathe – and sending Patrick a stern look.

“Why are you always there when I’m miserable?” Patrick asks with a sigh.

“Don’t you get it, Patrick?” Sandman asks quietly. “I’m the brother of sleep. I can only manifest wherever life is traded for death. I came here to collect her soul,” Sandman clarifies, “and I thought it would be a good time to talk to you again. I hoped I wouldn’t have to, but… Here we are.”

Patrick grits his teeth. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t need a lecture. I’m an adult, I’m a trained nurse, I _know_ what I’m doing. I know how to help, and I know I don’t need _yours_.”

Sandman stays silent, a pained look on his face. Patrick takes a step closer, which makes him recoil. “Don’t come closer,” Sandman mumbles, “remember, you can’t touch me or – or I’ll have to take your soul as well.”

“I miss you,” Patrick says quietly after another moment of silence. “Can’t we be friends again?”

“We can’t,” Sandman answers slowly. Whatever pain he feels seems to intensify with each word. “You shouldn’t be surrounded by death, Patrick. Those days of your childhood were full of misery, do you want to go back to that?!”

“Yes,” Patrick replies, “yes, I want to. Mommy loved me, and you were my friend, that was much better, that was worth the pain. Please, is there no way we can be friends again?”

Sandman just weakly shakes his head. There seem to be more unsaid words on his tongue, but releasing them would cause too much pain and effort. Before Patrick gets an answer to his question, Sandman has vanished again.

 

Everything goes well in the following weeks, but an irritating feeling of loneliness settles in Patrick’s chest. Now that he knows that Sandman is still there, his absence feels even worse. The ache in Patrick’s heart won’t go away, and he yearns for his only friend to be a part of his life again. He wants Sandman to see and understand what he does, to get Patrick’s perspective, he wants Sandman to praise him and smile at him – not that fake smile painted on his face, but the real smile underneath. Patrick has always hated the cruelty of this world, and even more so now that its rules are keeping the two of them apart.

He has always just wanted to help people, so it is only appropriate that his patients are helping him out a little now, too. That’s why tonight, Patrick is standing in the room of old Mr. Garrison, still clutching the now-empty syringe. Its absence will be noticed and so will the old man’s death, but by the time anyone will be here, Patrick won’t be anymore.

It’s okay, he tells himself, Mr. Garrison was old and sick and he would have died soon enough anyway. Patrick just spared him a long, agonizing, painful and lonely death, as his cancer was terminal and his family was nonexistent.

It doesn’t take long until blackness drowns out the artificial light in the room, wavering like fog. It takes a little longer than usual until Sandman emerges from it, exhausted and tired-looking. Patrick’s heart aches a bit at the sight, he doesn’t want to needlessly hurt his friend, but it had to be. Just one last time.

 

Patrick takes a step forward, then, his hands fist into the translucent fabric of Sandman’s shirt.

 

Patrick isn’t afraid. Life is nothing much to lose, and he will eagerly trade his for the chance of friendship with Sandman. If that is the only way to achieve happiness, Patrick is willing to pay that price without any regrets.

A silent plea in Sandman’s dark eyes goes unsaid, as Patrick has already sealed his mouth with his own lips. For the fraction of a second, he can feel warmth, soft skin and smeared paint, for the fraction of a second, Patrick feels happy.

 

And then, everything fades to black.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please consider leaving a comment, I am open to criticism and would really appreciate feedback. Even if it's just a sentence or two!
> 
> Find me [here](https://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com) on tumblr, I do more art there!
> 
> Also, don't forget to check out everyone else's work! ;)


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